Once Upon a Dream
by Raanah
Summary: Set as Season 1 began, Dean is on a solo hunt but may be losing his mind.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Firstly, thank you for deciding to read this. It's my first multi-chapter piece and I'm excited about it. It's set in the beginning of Season 1, John's searching for the Colt and Sam's at Stanford. I'd appreciate any feedback or plot suggestions so please review! Thanks again and Enjoy!

Dean fell into the motel room, dumped his bag on the floor and dropped straight onto the bed. The 9 hour drive had taken a toll on his mental and physical state and he'd been longing for a bed since before he got in his car this morning.

Sleep never came easy to him, with everything he knew about the world it was a wonder he was ever able to sleep at all.

He turned around, trying to find comfort in the abused bed, and there was a girl beside him. Though he didn't recognize her face, she felt familiar. Like he'd known her his whole life.

"Dean…" she whispered, smiling at him sweetly.

"yes?" he asked, and he couldn't help but smile back. Happiness radiated through his being, filling him with something he couldn't explain, something he'd never experienced before.

"Do you love me?" Her eyes met his, and it was as though a bolt of lightning shot through him.

"You take my breath away" he whispered, amazed at the feeling growing in his abdomen, like lips caught his in a whirlwind of emotion, and in that moment, she was all he needed. Before he realized it, he was on top of her and she was wrapped around him.

He broke away and looked at her face while she undid the buttons on his shirt. Her eyes rose to meet his and the electricity was back, knocking the breath out of him.

"I love you Dean Winchester" she whispered, as his phone started ringing.

Dean bolted upright. He was alone.

It took him a moment to wake up. He looked at the sunlight streaming in through the gaps in the curtain and briefly wondered what time it was. The shrill ring of the phone rang out once more, and his dream was lost with the rush of consciousness.

"Jesus Christ" he whispered as he reached for the phone. "Hello?"

"Dean? It's Rufus. Any word from your Dad yet?"

"No, nothing yet. I'll call you if I hear from him. " Dean muttered into the phone, running his hands over his face, urging himself to wake up.

"Ditto, you on that case in Illinois?" The hunter inquired

"Yeah, Just got here last night." Dean answered, getting up off the bed

"Cool, let me know if you need any help out there. I know someone in the area."

"Thanks man, I'll keep you posted." Dean hung up the phone and looked at himself in the mirror, taking in his tired eyes.

"Shit." he muttered as he looked away. Sometimes life became too much. His mom was dead, dad had vanished, brother had given up the life to be normal and Bobby was not taking his calls. He was all alone right now, with nothing but the thrill of a case to keep him sane.

He showered, got dressed, packed the car, and drove off to find some breakfast and the possibility of a distraction from his life.


	2. Chapter 2

After a quick breakfast, Dean walked into the police station with an air of confidence. He'd done this a million times in towns much larger than this one, they never doubted his story.

"Can I help you?" An office approached Dean with a stern look on his face.

"Special Agent Willis, FBI. I'm here about the murders." Dean stated, looking the officer right in the eye.

Dean enjoyed this part of the job more than he should. He'd always been a convincing liar, it was all about the bluff. Holding out till the other person gave in. He held eye contact till the officer wilted, accepting his story.

"This case is getting some attention, I'm Officer Buckley." He shook Dean's hand and gestured towards his desk.

Officer Buckley was a tall, skinny man in his late 40's. What was left of his hair was greying, but despite his weak demeanor, he carried an air of superiority with him.

Dean took a seat and looked around the room. The station had a buzz to it, three women murdered in three weeks would do that. Each home, alone. Doors locked. Windows Closed. No way in. No way out.

He had a few theories but nothing concrete yet. He turned his attention to Officer Buckley and proceeded with his initial interview.

"So, three women murdered in their homes?" Dean asked, opening his notepad.

"Yeah, real gruesome stuff. They were cut to shreds with their own kitchen knives." A sweat broke out over the officer's forehead, betraying his confident facade. "Murder weapons were at the scene, but we didn't recover any prints. I thought it was strange because it didn't look like the killer had tried to clean up."

Dean looked around the small town police station as he listened to the officer. Most of the officers were sitting at their desks: making calls, grinding out paperwork, reading over files. A few had people sitting with them, being questioned. There were a couple guys who had trouble written all over them, a kid with his hands in his pockets and a drunk. At the table behind him, Dean heard an officer talking to a reporter about the murders and he sighed. Reporters meant nothing but trouble. The last thing he needed was more attention being drawn to the case.

"So what can you tell me about the vics?" He asked the officer, the slightest hint of irritation in his deep voice.

"They were professors up at the University. Not much in common other than that. And the fact that they were all single." The officer seemed proud of himself for acquiring this information. He puffed out his chest and hooked his thumbs into his belt.

"Good… good…I'm going to need your case files. Here's my card, please give me a call if anything comes up." Dean was eager to end this interaction. He handed Officer Buckley his card and took the case files. "Thank you Officer. I'll be in touch."

Dean took one last look around the station as he left. The troubled guys were gone, probably in holding. The kid was still there, stony expression and all. The drunk was passed out in his chair. He made his way out of the station and across the parking lot, as an uneasy feeling overcame him.

He looked around, seeking out the source of his discomfort but the parking lot seemed empty. He quickened his pace to the car and as he reached the door, he spotted some movement out of the corner of his eye and stopped dead. Something was definitely there. He slowly took his gun out of the holster and released the safety, getting ready to shoot. Nothing moved. He didn't dare breathe. He heard the soft crunch of gravel behind him and spun around, aiming the gun directly at Officer Buckley.

"Whoah! Hold up!" The officer's hands shot up into the air, releasing the file he'd been carrying. Paper cascaded out of the file as it fell to the ground.

"Are you crazy?!" Dean yelled, catching his breath. "Why would you sneak up on me like that?"

"I wasn't sneaking, I mean, my mom always said I walked with the grace of a dancer. You know, soft like, but I was just bringing you the last file." Officer Buckley was sweating profusely and clutching his chest, as though in the midsts of a heart attack.

"Jesus. I'm sorry, I'm a little jumpy. Are you ok?" Dean apologised as he holstered his weapon and began picking up the documents.

"Well, ya didn't pull the trigger. So we're all good." The officer responded with a hint of sarcasm in his tone, still clutching his chest.

"Cool. Hey, Sorry again." Dean took one last look around the parking lot, making sure they were alone, before he opening his door and sliding into the driver's seat. Offer Buckley didn't bother trying to stand upright but waved goodbye

Dean made his way back to the motel room, still on edge. He read through the case files and some interesting facts jumped out at him. All the vics were professors and researchers, doing well in their respective fields. In fact, they were all nominated for some award. They were all single, middle aged women with no kids. The last victim had been married before but had been divorced for years.

"Probably a witch…" Dean said out loud as he opened a beer. "God damn witches." He took a long sip from the brown bottle and placed it on the bedside table. He never enjoyed the research portion of the job but it was necessary. He got up and stretched his legs, laying the file on the bed. The soft, warm breeze coming in through the window was putting him to sleep.

Dean walked into the bathroom and splashed some cold water onto his face. He dried his hands and walked back out, ready to tackle more of that case file but it was gone.

He looked around the room in a bit of a panic. The window was open but could someone have come in, grabbed the file and left that quickly? He doubted it. He grabbed the loaded gun from under his pillow and ran out the door and around to the window. No footprints, no sign of entry. Was he losing his mind? If someone had been there, they'd have enough of a head start to get away. But surely they'd leave some sign of themselves.

He walked back into the motel room, weighing his options in his mind. He made his way to the bed and picked up his beer, which was sitting on top of the case file.

"You have got to be kidding me." He was sure he'd left it on the bed. Dean closed the window, a preventative step. It had been a long day, his mind was obviously playing tricks on him. He decided to take a nap, wait till nightfall and then check out the last vic's home. If it was a witch, the hex bag may still be there.

As he dozed off, a voice filled his mind.

"Do you think we'll last? People like us never do." She said softly, eyes averted.

He steered her face upwards, so their eyes could meet.

"We'll beat the odds. And even if we don't, it's ok. I can't promise you forever but I can promise you that for as long as my heart's beating, it's yours." Dean searched her face for a response, and she offered a half smile.

"You promised." She whispered

"I promise." Dean responded and pulled in to kiss her deeply. Just as their lips touched, his alarm rang out and again, he was all alone in the motel room. This time remnants of his dream lingered, he heard her voice in his mind over and over again but her face had blurred into obscurity. He lay there for a few minutes, wondering whether dreams held meaning, before he began coaxing himself out of bed.

He packed a bag and made his way out to the Impala, being extra cautious in case he was actually being followed. As he drove out of the parking lot, he tried to remember more of his dream, but like sand through his fingertips, it slipped away. The more he tried to grasp at it, the further it slipped.


End file.
